Adieu
by LisaT
Summary: Francis is dead (I don't think this is a spoiler!) and Mary prepares to return to Scotland. Time for one last lesson on queenship. One-shot.


_I binged on_ _ **Reign**_ _on Netflix over the weekend, and despite finding it hilariously far fetched at times (Henry II pitching a duchess out his window? Catherine helping him dispose of the evidence?_ Really? _)_ _I fell for it hook, line and sinker. Especially (being an 'Anne' fan) Megan Follows's Catherine de Medici and I was intrigued by the shifts and changes of her relationship with Mary … and this came about. It is perhaps more rooted in 'real history' than the show, but I'm a historian by profession and I can't help that. I do hope that I've remained faithful to the relationships as we see them, though_.

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 **Amboise, 1560**

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Mary, Queen of Scots—no longer Queen of France—paused at the top of the flight of steps that would lead her away from the lovely chateau that had been her home since her return from the convent nearly three years before. Grief lay heavy on her; its visceral internal pull mirrored by the weight of black gown trimmed in jet. Over that flowed the white veil of widowhood donned by those who had once been Queens of France. The point of her widow's hood dug cruelly into her forehead, reminding her of all she had lost. Francis had loved to kiss her on that very spot, his breath a warm brush of intimacy…

She shuddered convulsively.

She could not think of Francis, not now. She would not be able to get through this, to do what must be done, if she thought of him. She could only survive if she told herself he was not really dead, that he had merely gone on another hunting trip, or to seek out monsters in the woods with Bash as he'd so often done before. Under her veil her hands clenched over her rosary—Francis's rosary—and she began to move to where her entourage awaited her, ready to return at last to Scotland.

The land of her birth.

The land she could not even remember—and which she must rule. Alone.

Panic fluttered in her belly like the child she'd yearned with such futility to bear to Francis (and France). This was not how it should be.

'Mary … Mary, wait!'

She stopped and turned for the young Charles IX, dropping to her knees—not as a gesture of obeisance or fealty, for as a sovereign queen she owed him neither—but to hold out her arms to her brother-in-law so that he might run to them, as he'd done since infancy. He collided with her hard, his grip almost feverish in its tenacity.

'You didn't say goodbye!' He pushed back to glare. 'You might be going away forever and you didn't say goodbye!' His lower lip trembled and she bit into her own; he was King of France but still such a child, a child who looked younger than his ten years.

'I couldn't, _mon chou_.' She used a finger to brush the satin softness of his cheek. 'There's been enough goodbyes.' She rose and tried to step back but he grabbed her veil, clinging to it.

'I don't want you to go,' he choked. 'I'm the King now and I—I don't want you to go!'

'I have to. I have to go back to Scotland. I have a country to think of, just like you—'

'You've _always_ had Scotland.' His gaze was accusing, the translucent eyes he'd inherited from his mother boring into her. 'It never made you leave before.'

'Charles …' Once again she sank in a pool of black and white so that their eyes were level. 'Things are different now. Francis … Francis…' This time she bit on her lower lip until the blood came.

Her small brother-in-law put a hand on her arm. 'I miss him too.'

'I know you do.' She dashed at her eyes and took his hand. 'Listen. I love you, I love France, I will _always_ love you … but this is not my place. Not now. We are _rulers_ , Charles. You and me, we can't go where our hearts lead. I—I came here for a reason. That reason … is gone.'

'It doesn't have to be. Mary, you could marry _me_!'

Shocked, she stared at him. Suspicion flared; Charles thought of her as his sister. He wouldn't come up with that by himself. Surely Catherine—

'I was hiding and I heard them talking,' Charles was saying. 'They didn't see me, I was behind the tapestries.' His eyes gleamed with satisfaction and she could not help but smile; he'd always loved to play hide-and-seek. 'It was Narcisse. He was talking to a priest, and Narcisse said, he said, "Mary could always marry Charles. We could get a dispensation. It's not as if it hasn't been done before".'

She was nearly breathless as she considered it. The Auld Alliance would survive. England and Spain could be held at bay for them both. There was nearly seven years between herself and Charles but such a gap was not impossible; there'd been six years between England's Henry VIII and his first wife, Katharine of Aragon. The Spanish princess was married first to Henry's brother, Mary remembered, a flare of excitement building. True, all the world knew how that had ended once Henry laid eyes on Anne Boleyn, but she was not Katharine and Charles was assuredly not Great-Uncle Henry. It was at least four years before Charles was old enough and in that time she could learn to lay her grief aside and come to view him as a husband. They could make it _work_.  
Oh, to stay in France, to stay near Francis, to stay at _home_ …

'Come on,' Charles was tugging at her, drawing her towards the great double doors. 'We'll find Mother and tell her, she can fix _anything_ —'

 _Anything that she hasn't already broken_ , Mary thought sardonically and stopped dead—but it was too late. She had been lost in dreams and Charles had moved faster than she'd given him credit for; already, they were outside the Queen Mother's rooms and he was pushing through, excitement pouring out of him with the relentless speed of a waterfall.

'Mother, you've got to listen, Mary doesn't have to go anywhere, isn't that amazing? She could marry me. She could stay!'

'Charles—' Mary twitched at her mother-in-law's voice. It was so light, so gentle, so profoundly at odds with the formidably dangerous woman she knew Catherine de Medici to be. 'Don't you think it's a bit soon—'

'Francis was engaged when he was _six_! That's four years younger than me!'

'Things were different then, darling.' Catherine sounded tired and unutterably sad, and Mary's throat tightened. She took a step nearer, her slippers peeking over the threshold, her fingers curling around the door as Catherine said, 'The world has changed and we must change with it. Mary's place is in Scotland, even if we will miss her.'

Old resentment flared. Even now, her mother-in-law was such a hypocrite.

'Don't lie to him, Catherine.' Mary had stepped in before she'd realised it. 'He might miss me, but do not pretend that _you_ will.'

Catherine straightened. 'Mary. Still here, I see. Still absolutely convinced that only you know what is right. Good to know some things never change, I suppose.' She brushed the back of her fingers along her son's cheek. 'Go back to the schoolroom, _mon fils_.'

'But Mother, Mary—'

' _I_ will sort this.'

Another caress, a slight push, and the young King sidled past his sister-in-law, only pausing long enough to whisper, ' _See_? I told you she could fix it.'

'God bless youth,' Catherine commented acerbically, striding past Mary to shut her doors behind her son. She turned, dusting her hands. 'He has such faith in me. Touching, isn't it?'

Mary lifted her chin. 'He'll grow out of it soon enough.'

'H'mm.' The Queen Mother's lips twitched. 'Like you did, you mean?'

'Like I had a choice,' Mary countered. 'You and Henry had me— _us_ —caught in a net from the very first day.'

'We did what we had to do.' Catherine's voice was hard. 'And I'd do it again. For France. You know this, my dear. I've watched you learn it in these past years. It will stand you in good stead—in Scotland.'

Mary was conscious of a strange sinking that she only belatedly recognised as disappointment.

'You lied to him! You let him think I could stay!' It was easier to be angry on Charles's behalf than her own.

'Did I?' Catherine took a sip from a goblet of Venetian glass, gems winking on her fingers as they caught the light. 'I made no promises. He only thinks I did.'

Mary blinked, unnerved and in truth somewhat hurt by the older woman's serenity. 'You _did_ lie to him.' Her throat ached, the stranglehold of it painfully familiar. 'You told him you would miss me.'

Catherine stared at her for a long moment, changeable Medici grey-green meeting steady Stuart hazel.

'Why must you always think the worst of me? I will miss you.' She turned, one hand going to rest on the back of her chair. 'You have been … something more and yet less than a daughter.' Her voice softened. 'More and less than a … colleague, shall we say? We have a bond, you and I. We're survivors. You may hate me and by God there are days I hate you, Mary Stuart, but … you came here as a child. I watched you grow. Mature into a beautiful, beautiful girl…'

Mary was surprised to hear a note of wistfulness; was Catherine _jealous_?

'And then you married my son. I gave you a way out then, you know.'

Mary nodded, remembering. She'd been so torn between Francis and Bash, between the conflicting demands of Scotland and France and her mother and King Henry and … and no-one had given her the space to simply decide for herself until Catherine handed her a blank letter and told her to choose her own fate.

'Do you …' Mary had to swallow hard against the strangling fear that had twisted in her ever since Francis said, _Mary, I'm dying_. 'Do you think, if I'd married Bash … would Francis still be alive?'

'God knows. The prophecy…' Catherine gave one of her elegantly economical shrugs. 'Sometimes I fear the only meaning that had was one we— _I_ —gave it.'

'I didn't kill him.' Mary's eyes were wet. 'You said he would die of a broken heart, that I'd killed him by running off with Louis, but… He didn't, Catherine. These past few months we've been so happy. He died of an abscess, an ear infection, even your own doctor says so.'

'I know.' Catherine drew nearer, near enough that the younger woman could see the marks of grief on her imperturbable mother-in-law's face. 'And it doesn't matter now, does it? Whether my son died from an abscess, whether somehow you were responsible for his death as Nostradamus foretold … He's still dead. We can't bring him back. As I told Charles, the world has changed and we must change with it.'

'And I must go back to Scotland.' Mary hated the note of hysteria that escaped but her country had become so real all of sudden, something more than a half-remembered land of mists and mountains. 'Catherine, I—' She dropped her eyes. 'I'm afraid.' Once she would have sold her soul rather than make such a confession to Catherine de Medici, but of late their relationship had shifted, lines less easily defined.

'I know.' Catherine's hand ghosted her cheek as it had done with Charles earlier, and Mary was transported back to childhood. After an initial unfortunate incident involving Diane de Poitiers she and Catherine had become close, in their fashion. She'd been a homesick six year old and Catherine was the only mother she had—

 _Still had_. The realisation made her gasp and the older woman's eyebrows went up.

'Mary?'

 _I'm going to miss you_. The words hovered unspoken on her lips. Confessing fear to another Queen, another woman, was one thing. Confessing love was something else. She eyed Catherine through her lashes and gave her a more acceptable truth. 'I can't do this. Be a Queen alone. I'm not you. I'm not Elizabeth—'

'Nonsense.' Catherine's hands were firm on her arms, shaking her. 'You have gifts of your own. You are clever. You are beautiful. You have charm, great charm … people are drawn to you whether they will it or not. I've had to rule through fear, you could rule through love … and perhaps a _little_ fear, h'mm?'

Mary managed a half-smile at that. That was so typically Catherine. 'Please don't give me a poison chest as a farewell gift.'

'I wouldn't dream of it. You're more likely to kill yourself than anyone else, my dear, and I refuse to take the flak for the Queen of Scots's death. God knows every other piece of mud that gets flung my way these days seems to stick.'

Her bitterness surprised Mary.

'I thought you liked it. Being feared. Having your name whispered—'

'Having people eye me uncertainly, scuttle out of the way when they see me coming, oh, yes, indeed! It's what every woman dreams of!' The Queen Mother turned away, her black gown sweeping the floor in a wide arc of velvet and brocade. 'I was fourteen when I came here, already scarred inside.' She threw Mary a look over her shoulder and the younger woman winced; that scar was one she too bore.

'All I wanted was love. Healing. And instead … I found an indifferent husband who preferred to spend his time with a woman old enough to be our mother, a court that treated me with disdain because I was merely a daughter of the Medici instead of a princess of the blood. Even my rank as Duchess of Urbino mattered naught; the nobles considered me a bad bargain, a barely satisfactory option when Spain and the Empire was out of the question and England turned to heresy. I learned quickly that fear was a faster path to power … and now my reputation precedes me and they call me all manner of things on the street. Every death seems to fall at my door … Do you know that some blame me for Francis?'

'That's absurd!' Mary was surprised by her own anger, but such a thought was … ridiculous.

'But easy to believe of a woman known as _Madame la Serpente_ , no? Think about it. All women must guard their reputations and a Queen most carefully of all.' In three steps Catherine was before her, hands once again on Mary's arms, squeezing them. 'Mary, my dear, dear child, listen to me now if you've never listened before. You walk a dangerous path and England will be watching, waiting for you to slip. Elizabeth will pounce as soon as you give her the chance … Do not underestimate her. Do not listen to those who call her usurper and tell you that with a very little effort you could be England's Queen. Elizabeth has fought too long and hard for her crown and she will defend it to the death–and in the process tear both your countries apart. Learn from what has happened here in France. Make amends with your cousin.'

Mary reared back. 'But she's our enemy!'

Catherine shook her head, the pearls at her ears swinging gently.

'She is _France's_ enemy–and our problems are no longer yours. Elizabeth can be your greatest friend or your most dangerous foe. Do what you must to avoid the latter because I must warn you … If you are foolish enough to fall afoul of her, do not think France can save you. We are teetering on the brink ourselves, torn apart from within, and overlooked by Spain. We cannot afford a war with England.'

Catherine loosened her grip on Mary's arms, taking her hands instead in a warm grasp while her next words struck ice deep inside the younger woman's soul. 'Hear me. If you make an enemy of Elizabeth I will do what I must for France and close my eyes against whatever action the English Queen takes against you, even if it breaks my heart.' Mary tried to detach herself, sickened and afraid. Why was Catherine being like this? Had she made some shady deal with Elizabeth? Was this her way of giving a warning?

But her mother-in-law's grip on her hands was tightening, demanding her focus.

'I know what you're thinking but I assure you, this is not treachery. This is what it means to be a queen. Do you understand, Mary?'

Mary nodded, a tremor growing as it ran through her. She sank to her knees; it was that or collapse. 'I'm so scared.'

'I know.' She felt Catherine's hand on her hair. 'If you were not scared you _would_ be a fool, and I do not believe you are. I know what you've endured, I've seen you fight even with your back against the wall. You have the strength to do this, to be the queen you were born to be.'

Recognising this as a dismissal of sorts, Mary drew a long shuddering breath and stumbled to her feet, her slippers catching on the hem of her gown. Unexpectedly, she pitched forward against Catherine and felt the older woman stiffen even as she herself instinctively started to recoil–until she realised that Catherine was not rejecting her, that the Queen Mother's arms were tightening around her. It was all the encouragement she needed. She wrapped her arms around Catherine's brocaded waist and clung to her even as her teeth gritted against the tears that wanted to come.

 _A Queen does not weep for what cannot be helped_. Catherine had not said it, not now, but it was kind of thing she _would_ say–and now at last Mary appreciated all those lectures and longed inexpressibly for more.

If only she'd realised before what she owed to her husband's mother, but she and Catherine had always been so busy hating each other (or pretending to hate each other). All those plots and schemes, the times Catherine had imprisoned her or she'd imprisoned Catherine, the gloating, the needling, the mocking… even the cruelty, for both she and Catherine had at times gone too far, pressing their fragile bond to the furthest extent of its limits.

And yet… and yet… They'd each saved each other's lives, at least once, and Catherine had saved Mary's sanity. She'd never confessed as much (would never confess it) but she suspected the older woman knew as she always seemed to know. Without Catherine's unwavering support after the rape Mary firmly believed she'd have gone mad, like crazy old Queen Juana of Castile, who legend said had travelled the length and breadth of Spain with her husband's body until she was forced to give it up.

A knock sounded on the door and Mary moved away from Catherine as her mother-in-law sighed and snapped, 'Come in!'

The door opened a fraction, revealing an apologetic Lola. It would be Lola of course, Mary thought bitterly. Thanks to little John Lola's place at the French court was secure for as long as she wanted it.

'Mary, your brother says you're ready to go.'

She dredged a smile she was far from feeling. 'I know. Tell him I'm coming.' A simple wave of her hand dismissed her friend and she looked at Catherine, her heart lodging in her throat as she realised that this was it, this was goodbye. They were unlikely to ever meet again.

'Catherine—' but the older woman lifted her hand.

'Don't. Don't say goodbye. Just … _go_. Go and take your life and your country, Mary, Queen of Scots, and may God be with you.'

Mary dipped her head and swept to the door, turning one last time–and all at once she knew what she could do for Catherine. _Merely a daughter of the Medici_ , she'd called herself, not a princess in her own right. Not a royal by blood. As Queen of Scotland Mary had never curtsied to Catherine, even when the latter was Queen of France; a sovereign does not yield precedence to a consort.

Well, that could be remedied now.

She sank into the deepest curtsy of her life, her head bowed and black mourning gown spreading like petals around her–and had her reward in a tiny gasp, so quickly covered that if Mary had not been listening for it, hoping for some signal that Catherine understood, she'd have missed it.

Satisfied, Mary, Queen of Scots rose and left without a backward look, her steps purposeful as she went to meet her destiny.

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 **Fin**

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 _And there you have it! My first fic for this fandom! Any comments/reviews would be amazing!_


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